


Where Is He?

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [27]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Author Has Gone Insane, Character Death, Character Death Fix, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, Fix-It of Sorts, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Kidnapping, Not Really Character Death, Other, Torture, Triggers, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t look,” Sam said, voice scratchy, as the rest of the team started to walk forward, “Just… don’t look. He wouldn’t… have wanted you to see him like this.” <br/>“He’s... he’s gone?” Jules asked, looking at Sam and not the slumped body, and she closed her eyes when he gave a shaky nod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Is He?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely readers, and welcome back! I hope you're enjoying my work, I adore making people happy (or making them cry, it depends on the situation). I love this ship, and I hope you other shippers out there find my work acceptable. If you like what you're reading, and want more, please leave feedback. I know I always say that, but seriously--it's what keeps me writing. Thank you so much for all the love you've given me with the kudos and comments--because that's the reason all these stories are out there for you to read; because I have physical evidence that people want to read my work.   
> Anyway, enjoy this story and have a wonderful day. :)
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

“So Spike got onto his flight alright?” Jules asked, heaving the weight above her head as sweat gathered on her brow.

“Yeah, he gave us a call after he landed,” Ed told her, jogging along on the treadmill next to Wordy, “It’s a short trip; he’s only down there for the weekend.”

They lapsed into low sounds of exercise, the whirr of machines and dull thumps of footfalls, until Winnie’s voice cut through the air.

“Greg? Can you come over here?” The woman called, speech unsteady, and Greg frowned but quickly got off the bike and went over to her. The team followed, stretching and bumping elbows while all too aware of the feeling in the air.

“This just arrived,” Winnie explained, handing over a white envelope, “It was only addressed to the SRU.”

Unfolding the paper, the sergeant skimmed the lines and froze, turning pale as his gaze roved back over the words.

“What’s it say?” Sam asked, and Ed peered over the negotiator’s shoulder so he could read along.

“The serial killer—the one the Toronto PD’s been after for over a month?” Greg gulped, eyes glistening, “This is from him. It’s the coordinates where he says Spike’s…” The trailed off, throat clenching up, “Spike’s body is.”

“I can’t get ahold of his cell,” Winnie spoke up softly, still holding the phone to her ear, “He’s not answering.”

They’d never ran to the SUVs so fast before.

 

* * *

 

Words had always been Greg’s specialty; and he was proud of it—proud of his ability to twist them into complicated webs and unravel them just as easily. Words are his favorite weapon—and he wields them expertly; he gets subjects to put down their guns, and he gets those on the ledge back onto solid ground.

However, that gift has fled his body and soul—leaving him with an empty feeling that gnawed at his gut. There aren’t butterflies in his stomach; there are serrated blades, and they were climbing up his throat with the same tact as the aforementioned winged creatures. Even if he wanted to speak, he couldn’t…

…Because there are no words for this.

The coordinates aren’t wrong, they’re spot on, but the negotiator wished they were.

It looked like a horror scene out of some low-budget movie—especially since it’s nearly two in the morning and the only light is from the headlights of the SUVs. It’s a cabin, outlined in dense foliage, with a dusty trail leading up to the front porch. It’s a mix of sandy pale and murky, dull red—smears of blood mar the trail in thick drag patterns, and they continue up the stairs and through the open cabin door like a red carpet laid out just for them.

“He could still be alive,” Sam hissed, watching as the uniforms set up a perimeter, “We’ve got to get in there!”

They all knew it’s a slim hope, but it gave the team something to grasp onto—feeble as it is. So they entered, guns drawn and shields up, and it was the worst decision Greg had ever made in his career—in his life.

There was a body, strapped to a wooden chair, facing away from them but the short brown hair and light skin made bile rise in everyone’s throats. There was a pool of blood, coagulated and displaced by footprints, and the entire room stank of copper.

“Spike?” Ed asked, his voice shaky and broken, and Sam threw down his shield before running to the bleeding man’s side—nearly slipping in the red liquid; he fell to his knees, peering up at the face with horror as the cold fluid seeped through his pants.

Then the blonde sniper fell back, eyes wide with too many emotions, and barely caught himself with one arm stretched behind him—the other flying to cover his mouth, muting the shuddering gasp that was turning into a sick sensation. Then, with disjointed movements, Sam jolted up from the ground and backed up—not speaking, gaze unwavering—until his back hit the wall and he slid down. The younger sniper’s legs splayed out in front of him, hands fisted in the heavy material of his uniform.

He’d seen bodies sitting bloated on desert sand, he’d seen his friends and fellow soldiers killed, he’d had to identify bodies missing limbs.

He’d never had to look his lover in the face and realize he was long gone; one eye missing and fingers twisted at unnatural angles—face so bruised he could barely make out features, his other eye nearly swelled shut, lip split open and nose sitting broken. This hadn’t been a quick or painless death. This had been torture.

“Don’t look,” Sam said, voice scratchy, as the rest of the team started to walk forward, “Just… don’t look. He wouldn’t… have wanted you to see him like this.”

“He’s... he’s _gone_?” Jules asked, looking at Sam and not the slumped body, and she closed her eyes when he gave a shaky nod.

Ed had stormed out, and Sam could hear his uneven breaths coming from just outside the cabin door—hear the tell-tale hitches of a man holding back his tears and sobs.

Greg had a hand pressed tight over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, and the blonde sniper had never seen his lover seem so weary and old—like, in a split second, he’d aged a thousand years. Then, with a deep breath, the negotiator grabbed a blanket that had been lying a few feet away and draped it over the bomb tech’s corpse—catching the glimpses of bone-deep bruises and lacerations crisscrossing the younger man’s chest. Then the sergeant walked out, not bothering to side-step the blood that was grimy coated on the floor near the cabin’s threshold, and the team followed a few seconds after.

Still pressed against the wall, Sam gave himself a few seconds to get as composed as he was ever going to get. After his breath wasn’t rapid or shallow or some mix of the two, the blonde stood up and walked over to the chair and the figure under the blanket.

Lifting the material up, and placing it in Spike’s lap, Sam gently closed the dead bomb tech’s eyes—not breathing at the sight of the shallow crevice in the skull—and rested their foreheads together. Slowly, he untied the bonds keeping his lover’s limbs strapped down and placed them to the side—and he pulled out the blade stuck in the brunette’s lower thigh, letting it clatter to the ground. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be moving evidence but the younger sniper couldn’t leave his lover stuck, cold and face still twisted in unimaginable agony, and looking like this. It wouldn’t have been what he would’ve wanted, and, Sam decided, if he couldn’t have saved the bomb tech, the least he could do was this.

There were too many things to say, but there was no one to listen so Sam simply bunched the edge of the blanket in his shaking fists and carefully pulled it back over Spike’s form. After that, hands still unsteady, he stood up at his full height—determined and shattered, the worst mix a soldier could ever be—and ambled after his team with a mask placed cautiously over his features.

It took all his strength to not deck the crime scene investigators, their stretcher and body bag a reminder too soon, so he focused every fiber of his being on crawling into the SUV—Wordy sitting numb behind the steering wheel—and staring blankly out the window; trying with all his might to not look at the blood crusted on his fingers.

Greg was talking over the radio, but Sam didn’t listen.

“We’ll catch him,” Ed said over the radio—voice dead, no emotions at all. “The bastard won’t get away with this.”

“Eddie…” Greg started, drained and exhausted, but Sam cut him off.

“For Spike?” He asked, though it wasn’t really a question, with a thickness to his voice that had only made an appearance at Lou’s death, and the team was quick to respond.

“For Spike.”

 

* * *

 

Ice was pumping through his veins, keeping the fatigue at bay, as Spike exited the airport and threw his luggage into the rental car and scrambled behind the driver’s seat. Fingers clicking over the number pad of his new phone, Spike dialed the familiar SRU dispatch number and pulled out into the street towards The Barn.

Finally, after too many rings, Winnie answered with a brisk hello.

“Winnie, it’s me. What’s going on? I lost my phone, and according to my ma you’ve been trying to reach me all day. Did something happen? Is someone hurt?” He rushed out, possible questions looping around his head.

“ _Spike_!” his friend gasped reverently, “Where are you?”

“Heading towards headquarters, I just got off the plane—it was the first flight I could get.”

It was silent for a few seconds, and Spike was ready to speak again but Winnie cut him off.

“Spike, no one could get a hold of you,” She started, and the bomb tech furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“I know, I lost my phone—like I said. I didn’t know anyone was trying to get ahold of me until my ma got ahold of my cousins and told them that they were looking for me. And no one was answering their phones, so I got on the first flight I could find. Now what’s going on?”

“You know the serial killer that’s been targeting Toronto?” Winnie asked, and Spike nodded before he realized she couldn’t see him so he verbalized and listened as she continued, “He sent us a location, and said he had you. Team One and Team Three responded, and they found a body.”

“And they thought it was me.” Spike swallowed, his grip tight on the steering wheel.

“There was so much damage, and what little they could see matched you.” Winnie explained, but Spike cut her off before she could continue.

“Can you patch me into the headsets? Let me talk to them?”

“Yeah, just give me a moment.”

There was the sound of lightning fast keystrokes, and Spike pulled into the parking garage before leaping out of the vehicle and hurrying to the elevator—phone still pressed tight against his ear.

“You’re in,” Winnie said just as Spike left the elevator and jogged to her desk, and she leapt from her chair to pull him into a hug.

“Guys?” Spike winced, because his voice was too airy and he didn’t know what to say. There was a hush, and then the voices came over so strong that the bomb tech wrenched the phone from his ear in pain. “That wasn’t my body,” He started, speaking louder than he usually did in an attempt to be heard, “I just got off of my flight; I’m at the Barn. I’m fine.”

“ _Spike_?” Greg whispered over headsets, and it sounded so torn that it brought tears to the bomb tech’s eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me.” The brunette poured as much love into those three words as he could.

There wasn’t much of a conversation, because the team was too raw to speak—what could they say?

—But there was a flurry of action, louder than any words, when Team One spilled in from the elevator and Spike found himself swept up into a bone-crushing hug. His arms were pinned firmly to his side, but he still reached out as far as he could, grabbing onto the Kevlar pressed against his ribs. There was a face buried in the curve of his neck, wet with tears, and another body quickly pressed against his back and one against his side.

Arms wrapped around his waist and hip and one even went across his chest so tight Spike thought his bones would warp and bend. Hands held on with bruising force, fingers digging into his flesh so hard that the bomb tech couldn’t hold back a tiny wince as his nerves complained.

The team gave their sergeant, team leader, and blonde sniper a few seconds to just cling to Spike, but after that they joined the huddle and beamed at the bomb tech.

“I’m okay,” Spike repeated, but the men just held on tighter and the brunette resigned himself to knowing the truth; his words wouldn’t fix this.

 

* * *

 

Getting home was an adventure, to say it simply.

Spike had found himself dragged into the showers, because his lovers were clear about not wanting him out of their sight—which, on one hand the bomb tech understood but on the other it made him want to roll his eyes.

When the blood was gone, circled down the drain, and they dried off and dressed, the four of them piled into one car and drove to Greg’s house—it was a silent ride, and Spike found himself squished between Greg and Sam in the backseat as Ed drove.

Then, after they managed to get into the house in a jumble of limbs and hands clenched around clothing, the four found themselves in the bedroom. There was only exhaustion in their bones, and only blooming fear-hope in their eyes.

Spike stripped down to his boxers, not bothering to put on a shirt, and climbed under the covers with a yawn. Sam crawled in after him, sliding under his younger lover so the brunette was resting between his legs and using his chest as a pillow. Ed and Greg laid down on their respective sides, instantly clutching onto him.

Sam’s hands were gripping the back of Spike’s thighs, fingertips leaving imprints on the soft skin. The bomb tech pressed a soft kiss to the blonde’s throat, reaching an arm out and felt a hand quickly intertwine with his.

Greg scooted closer, laying an arm over the brunette’s lower back and curling his hand around small bow of his hip, then threw a leg over Sam’s so it rested over both the blonde’s and the bomb tech’s. The negotiator leaned over the younger sniper’s chest, catching Spike’s lips in a kiss as Sam’s arm wrapped around his older lover.

Ed, using Sam’s shoulder as a pillow, threw his arm carelessly over Spike’s back and held onto him like he was afraid someone was going to take their younger lover away. He got a kiss too, short and sweet like a promise, as Spike drifted between awareness and sleep.

“I love you,” the brunette told them all, not bothering to try and loosen their holds, and they murmured their responses into his skin and hair like they were prayers.

Then he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him, wrapped up in his lover’s arms—the safest, warmest, securest place his mind could think of.

And for Greg, Ed, and Sam—it was the best place they could be, too; with their lover healthy, protected, and loved.

It was the only place they wanted to be.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
